


to a brand new world

by townshend



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, M/M, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townshend/pseuds/townshend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Les Misérables Sentinel AU (and a modern one, to boot).</p><p>Michel Enjolras is a Sentinel - but the more he discovers what that means, the less he likes it, and the system it's all entangled in. Changes must be made, but he can't make them alone. He sets out to seek others like him and fight to ensure all can be free against the oppression of the Towers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [14112](https://archiveofourown.org/users/14112/gifts).



> This is heavily inspired by Velvet Mace's fic Chameleon, a BBC Sherlock Sentinel AU which can be found [here](http://velvet-mace.livejournal.com/340223.html). I'm playing around in this world and making a few new rules myself. Chameleon isn't required reading to understand this by any means, but if you're in the fandom, it's certainly an intriguing one.
> 
> Also, as a note, pairings and included characters will change and evolve as the story continues. I'm not giving anything away just yet, so I'll update them as I write!

Michel Enjolras got his senses the day he turned thirteen.

His father was throwing him a lavish party at his countryside home south of Paris, and Enjolras, never having been a very friendly child, had few peers in attendance - the grounds were mostly full of his father's friends and "social connections", and their children. Everyone seemed more focused on the party and who was and wasn't there rather than the boy for whom everyone was in attendance.

It suited Enjolras just as well. He'd scooped up a handful of macarons, moved to a secluded garden off of his ground-level sitting room (his bedroom was on the floor above), and curled up in a corner with a book.

The taste of the first bite of macaron was undeniably overwhelming. He could pick out the almond, the sugar, the cream and raspberry of the filling, all separate from each other. It was the most amazing thing he'd ever tasted. The smell of it overwhelmed him, and then, there was the smell of the old pages underneath his fingertips, and he could hear his father speaking to a woman on the other side of the house, far away, and he could hear _everyone_ , smell everything--

In a panic, Enjolras stumbled to his feet. The sound of the book dropping from his lap sounded like an explosion in intensity. He made it to the gate to his garden where he stood overlooking the party going on, opened his mouth to call for his nursemaid, and promptly passed out.

Two days later, Enjolras was standing outside the Paris Tower, looking up into it, fear settling low in his stomach. He had never thought he would be a Sentinel - the genes for it just didn't run in his family; they hadn't had a Sentinel or a Guide bearing the name 'Enjolras' for hundreds of years. The Paris Tower, where Sentinels and Guides were made to live as required by law, was a particularly imposing building. Enjolras couldn't say he liked the look of it at all.

"You'll do well here, son," his father said, slapping him forcefully on the back. Enjolras didn't particularly feel that he was going to 'do well'. He felt that he was going to be sick.

Soon, however, the fear and anxiety became something else altogether.

Enjolras knew little about Sentinels and Guides - only that they came in pairs, and one facilitated the other - although in what way, he wasn't sure. He'd spent the better part of the last two days (what parts of them he was conscious for, anyway) wondering frantically how he would get a Guide, and whether or not he was already supposed to know one or have one in mind.

That was why, after being seated down to an interview on that first day with the counselor, the first words out of his mouth were, "But when will I have a Guide?". The woman seemed surprised, and then she laughed, clearly amused.

"Well, aren't you an eager one?" she asked, smiling to herself. "Don't worry, dear. We'll take care of all of that."

And she went on to explain how, exactly, that would happen. Guides, she said, came to the Tower just as he had, and were trained just as he would be (although in different matters). Where Sentinels were those with heightened senses, skilled in perception, Guides were the ones who tempered those skills, controlling the flame. Without a Guide, a Sentinel would be like a wildfire, and the overwhelming attack that had thrown Enjolras at his birthday party would be a constant, everlasting struggle. There were, of course, ways a Sentinel could learn to maintain themselves, but only just. While at the Tower, unbonded Sentinels would be kept in line by the Guides (always already bonded) working there as instructors. Over time, match-makers would size up the Sentinels and Guides, and introduce potential matches to each other to see how they got along. Once bonded (a topic the woman was frustratingly vague about), a Guide would be there for a Sentinel for life.

"She-- or he-- will take care of you," the woman promised, "and you'll take care of them. Wherever you go, they will go. Their life will be in your hands, Michel. It's quite the responsibility."

Enjolras thought about that for a moment. "But what if they don't want to go where I go?" he asked, frowning.

She blinked, then laughed again. "Oh, don't worry. Once you're bonded, you'll understand."

But the more Enjolras thought about it, the more it bothered him. The other boys in the program with him (because Sentinels were boys, _almost_ exclusively) sat around lunch tables and practice fields and talked about bonding with excitement, but Enjolras sat back, only listening, weighing the words.

Finally, a boy turned to him, irritated with his obvious silence. "What about you, Enjolras?" he asked, pointedly. "Don't you want a Guide, too?"

"Guides are people," he said, suddenly, his voice loud enough to fill up the space - it felt as if it had weight, as if it covered the entire table and sat there, heavy and cumbersome. "People are not things we can own. They are not things we can debase and 'have' and bond with, like a pet."

There was silence at the table - for a moment, Enjolras thought he had provoked thought. Then, the group of boys suddenly started laughing.

He didn't eat at that table again.

As he grew, Enjolras learned to keep his thoughts to himself for fear of attracting negative attention, and resisted all attempts to get him to bond with any proffered Guide. As he reached his eighteenth birthday, however, the matchmaker's pushes got even harder, and Enjolras was frequently sent on "searches" with other teams of unbonded Sentinels, in hopes they could catch a mate.

"We're sending you with a search party," his counselor said, her voice firm. "Michel, you're handsome and intelligent - your senses are extraordinarily powerful. Any Guide would be lucky to match with you. But you're stubbornly unmatchable. I'm taking drastic measures."

Enjolras ignored the praise, focusing instead on the rest of the sentence. "A search party?" he asked, warily. "What does that mean?"

"As you know," the woman began, carefully, as if she already knew she would have to explain this and didn't exactly want to, "Sentinels and Guides are bound by the law to turn themselves in to their Towers - but following the law is not something everyone does. Many on the outside fear the Towers out of misconceptions. They don't understand that we're here to help them, and so they hide. As a Sentinel, you're naturally equipped to seek these people out - and since they're almost always Guides, you're also motivated by the need to bond. It's instinct." She leveled her gaze on him across the desk. "We don't know who or what we'll encounter out there, so we put together a team of a few different Sentinels with different traits. Hopefully, one of you will be compatible with the Guide, which will make bringing him or her in easier. After that, you can bond, and you'll be complete."

"I am complete," Enjolras said stubbornly, "without another. And the other is complete without me."

She frowned, then continued as if uninterrupted.

"You'll be on our next team. Monsieur Chevalier has already smelled out someone hiding around the national library."

And so the hunt was on.

Enjolras recognized some of the other Sentinels - one was even from that lunchroom table so many years ago. As they reached the site, Enjolras could smell it, immediately - slow, dawning recognition (a Guide could sense Sentinels, too, and could surely sense five thirsty Sentinels prepared for a chase) and then horror.

"She's giving a chase," Chevalier called. The other Sentinels dashed in pursuit. Enjolras followed with the same sense of nausea in his stomach that he'd felt when he'd first laid eyes on the Tower.

Within ten minutes, one of the others had caught her.

Enjolras watched the other Sentinels pushing the terrified-looking woman into the van, where she would be transferred to the Tower, facilitated by M. Chevalier and his assistant standing calmly nearby. The woman's face had been twisted into a look of sheer terror, and her eyes had locked with Enjolras'. They looked as if they had been pleading for her life.

A fire was lit in Enjolras that day. He had never been a man who had given much consideration to the law, but he examined them with a new ferocity now, seeing the glaring, disgusting oppressions therein he was ashamed he hadn't seen before.

The next time M. Chevalier organized a search, Enjolras was the first to report. Ideas were swimming in his head - ideas on how he would stop this injustice, somehow, someway. Each was more ridiculous and improbable than the last.

"This one isn't a run-of-the-mill hideaway, gentlemen," Chevalier said, as the van took off from the Tower's garages. "A René Combeferre - he somehow managed to run away from our Tower just two hours ago. Patrols have tracked him down to this general area. You may smell the Tower on him, in that case."

Enjolras smelled something else. Desperation.

When the van stopped, Enjolras took only a moment to concentrate before he took off.

This Combeferre was a smart one - it was no wonder he'd been able to escape from the Tower. He was powerful, too - although Guides were first and foremost advertised as Sentinels' helpers, they often had their own quirks, and Enjolras could see Combeferre's was to throw people off-track, to feed distracting information, and therefore, to confuse. It was certainly playing to Combeferre's advantage - Enjolras caught the trail of the most powerful scent and followed it, but the other Sentinels seemed dazed, many going off in different directions. How amusing.

It was a shame Enjolras hadn't met him before - although unsurprising. Unbonded Sentinels and Guides were kept strictly separate from one another at the Tower. The official reason was to cut down on "distractions" - unbonded Sentinels were painted as unstoppable machines who couldn't help but give in to instinct to bond - but Enjolras saw it more as a method of control, a way to make sure bondings were only done with agreement of matchmakers who matched people together to maximize qualities they wanted around the Tower, or worse, for political reasons, whatever those may be. It seemed a way to keep bondings from happening as they should - _naturally_.

As Enjolras rounded a corner and ducked into an alleyway, there was a loud clattering somewhere behind him, and he'd been so focused on the path that the sound was amplified ten-fold. He gasped, nearly coming to a stop, a hand going to his head as the noise echoed in his ears.

"I want to help you!" he called. He had no idea if he was close enough to be heard or not.

"Help me!" A man's voice called, laughing. It sounded like it had come from the north, and so Enjolras started in that direction, but then the echoed laugh had come from the south-west, and a gasp and patter of footsteps to the east. Enjolras hesitated only a moment before setting off in that direction, certain the other two had been a ruse. "I won't go back there! Absolutely not."

"We don't have to," Enjolras argued. They needed to stop this. Causing such a ruckus would only get the others on their trail. "We'll leave together."

"I don't need you." The voice was close, then - Enjolras hesitated, he could see a light down a narrow alley to his left, and he darted down it, intent. There was a long shadow there, and when it heard Enjolras approach, it started, rushing to get away. Enjolras turned into the lighted entryway - it was a back door to an abandoned house. Enjolras could hear Combeferre, now, could hear his hurried footsteps up the creaking stairs, the gasping sounds of his terrified breaths.

He couldn't hear any Sentinels nearby.

"You don't," Enjolras called. "I know that. Please! Come with me. I can get you away from them. If we work together, we can stay one step ahead."

"You're lying," the man gasped. It was little more than a whisper, but Enjolras could hear it all the same. It was coming from upstairs. Enjolras stepped slowly down the hall, turning, finding the worn staircase - but he hesitated, feeling as if going up it and cornering the terrified man would be a poor show of faith indeed.

"I'm not," he answered. "But we have to leave now."

"I'm caught either way," Combeferre reasoned. "I'm caught either way. I can only go with you and hope you're true--"

And, with a hitching breath and a few shaking steps, the man appeared at the top of the staircase, lit only softly by the dim light in the house. Enjolras was taken immediately with how beautiful he was, and then taken by surprise with that realization, or beauty had never struck him one way or the other in his life before. Combeferre gazed at him in much the same way, fear mixed with apprehension and surprise. Enjolras held out his hand, slowly.

"With me," he said. "Do what you've been doing, throw them off the trail. I know how to fool them. We'll be hidden on the other side of the city by morning."

Combeferre came down the stairs and took his hand. With this admission, it was as if the bubble Combeferre had built around himself had moved to accommodate Enjolras as well - suddenly, Enjolras was overwhelmed with the other man, with his scent, the sounds of his breathing and exhale, the way he swayed on his feet, almost imperceptibly. And Combeferre looked at him as well, shaken, seeing Enjolras completely in that moment. Enjolras felt strangely laid bare, but somehow, he didn't mind it.

"My god," Combeferre whispered. "We're--"

"This is not the place," Enjolras said, firmly, although his heart was hammering in his chest, and he could _hear_ the quickening of Combeferre's pulse as well, the blood thumping through his veins. "We cannot linger. We're too close. They'll comb these homes soon out of desperation. We move."

It seemed like a mad plan - but move they did. Combeferre seemed to know Paris' streets (and back streets) by memory, and moved through them effortlessly, sending distractions out at each turn. Enjolras stayed hyper-alert as well as he could, listening for other Sentinels, directing Combeferre when he thought he felt one nearby. They worked together flawlessly.

As the sun began to rise, Combeferre and Enjolras stood far from the Tower and its Sentinels, in front of a small café at the Rue Saint-Michel.

"I know this place," Combeferre assured him. "They have rooms for rent upstairs. If we run any farther, we'll collapse from exhaustion. We both need to rest."

Enjolras could feel the truth of that statement weighing heavily on him. He nodded, following Combeferre as he stepped inside. Within ten minutes, they had a room overlooking the street, and Combeferre drew the curtains against the morning sun.

For the past five years, Enjolras had grown accustomed to the specially-designed rooms in the Tower, which had been carefully made to cut down on unneeded stimuli. Sound-proof walls and doors, along with machines made to broadcast white noise, ensured Sentinels wouldn't hear what was going on around them and overload - but there was none of that here. Enjolras could hear the coffee grinder two floors below, a woman rustling her newspaper in the café, a baby crying down the street, two sisters fighting in a store across the way. He sagged against the wall, overwhelmed, his mind beginning to retreat in on itself.

But then, Combeferre's hand brushed Enjolras' cheek, hesitantly, and Enjolras was brought back to himself at a thunderous speed. "Shh," Combeferre murmured, gazing up at Enjolras shyly. "Don't zone out on me."

Enjolras could feel Combeferre's spirit prodding his, as if asking for permission. The feeling was exhilarating and new, and it wasn't hard for Enjolras to focus on that instead.

"I'm Enjolras," he said, suddenly. "Michel Enjolras."

"You seem to know my name already," Combeferre murmured, amused. "Well, Monsieur Enjolras, now that we've run, what is your plan?"

Enjolras spoke faster than he could think. "We keep fighting," he spoke. "We are not alone, Combeferre. There are others like us, who seek freedom from the Tower. There are Sentinels and Guides hiding all across France, and they should not be. No one should have to hide."

Combeferre's eyes seemed to take on a new shine. "I have thought for so long that I was the only one who thought so."

It was set, then. Their beginnings were humble and uncertain, but Enjolras had faith, and he could feel it in Combeferre, too, mingling with his own. They were a formidable pair. They would fight. They could win.

They had to try.


	2. the malade imaginaire

Enjolras awoke to a low sound of a hooting owl. He stirred, momentarily disoriented by sleep - they'd gone to bed just as morning had broke, and the hooting of an owl could only mean it was nighttime. He had not at all meant to sleep quite that long.

He was aware suddenly that the warmth that had been beside him in the bed was gone, and he couldn't feel Combeferre's energy anywhere in the small apartment. This was enough to send him into a panic - only hours ago, they were being hunted by a group of desperate Sentinels, and by now, the Tower surely realized that Enjolras had escaped. Enjolras threw back the bed covers, hastily pulling on his shoes. He stopped only long enough to realize that the owl he'd heard was perched outside their window, staring at him, a sight doubly strange because it was not, in fact, night. Afternoon light shown in through the partially pulled-back curtains, and Enjolras was so dazed by the sight that he failed to hear the heavy tread of footsteps coming up the stairs until they were just outside the door.

When the door opened, it was Combeferre, carrying a stack of books and looking surprised to see Enjolras awake, standing crouched beside the window, still in the midst of pulling on his second shoe. For a moment, Enjolras felt extremely foolish, and then...

"Why did you leave?" he asked, his tone low. It didn't matter if he tried to keep his rising anger out of his voice; Combeferre would easily be able to sense it. Even Enjolras could feel it moving out from him and curling around the room. Combeferre looked uncomfortable, shifting, before turning and walking past the small kitchenette, placing his armload of books on the desk against the far wall.

"I scoped out the area before leaving," he said, patiently. "It was safe." Combeferre turned towards Enjolras with a carefully masked expression, and Enjolras realized that it wasn't just his expression, but his feelings seemed to be mostly hidden as well. That drove him crazy - there was undeniable chemistry between them, a pull Enjolras had sworn never to give in to but now was unable to deny. He could feel Combeferre's spirit responding to those calls, but before they could have bonded after they'd finally arrived here the night before, Combeferre had instead reached out to calm Enjolras' heightened nerves so much he'd fallen asleep instead.

His fingers curled and uncurled in nervous fists.

"You should have woken me," Enjolras chided, but he could hardly stay angry - he wasn't, in truth, mad to begin with, only frightened for Combeferre's safety and disoriented in his new surroundings, which made him undoubtedly irritable.

"You needed rest." Combeferre turned now to the window, peering beyond the glass, and smiled. "And part of me was here to watch over you."

That took Enjolras by surprise - he followed Combeferre's gaze to see the owl outside had begun preening, its beak working over the feathers on his left wing. But there was something suddenly ethereal about the sight, and Enjolras grinned upon revelation.

"Is that...?" he asked, gesturing towards the window. Combeferre nodded.

The owl was Combeferre's spirit animal. Enjolras marveled at it. Seeing spirit animals typically took a degree of concentration on his part, unless there was a relationship between the two people. He'd never bothered making friends with any Sentinels or Guides at the Tower, and "normal" people didn't have them, so Enjolras hadn't had opportunity to see many besides his own and a few of his teachers'. Combeferre's looked to be a barn owl, with a white face and yellow-orange wings dotted with spots of grey and white. It was beautiful, but still rather surreal, especially during the day.

"Yours," Combeferre said, bringing Enjolras back from his trailing thoughts, "has been busy while you were asleep. I saw it patrolling up and down the streets. Which means you weren't resting as well as you could be."

"You saw mine?" Enjolras asked, raising a brow. He couldn't be too surprised that Combeferre had recognized it. The man seemed smart, and besides that, a golden eagle would look out of place in the middle of Paris.

As if on cue, the bird suddenly swooped in from the left, coming to perch on the other side of the window from the owl. It regarded the owl with a long gaze before turning its eyes on Enjolras, surveying him.

"It seems you are everything you said you were." Combeferre turned away from Enjolras, slipping out of his jacket and turning to hang it on a small row of hooks near the door. Enjolras relaxed as well, kicking his shoes off, sitting at the edge of the bed, keeping eyes on the other man.

"I am," he said, firmly. "It wasn't my immediate plan to run from the Tower. They sent me on the hunt for you, and I had only decided I wanted to help you, somehow."

Combeferre gave a sort of sniff of amusement. "And what was your first plan, under those guidelines?"

"I didn't have one yet. Just to find you first."

"You must have left things behind at the Tower." Combeferre glanced back towards Enjolras, clearly sizing him up. Enjolras could feel the man's spirit poking at his with curiosity, and Enjolras couldn't help but respond back with a bit too much enthusiasm.

"Nothing important," Enjolras said, seriously.

"That's good. You can never go back there now. You can never go anywhere even near there. In fact, we should make plans to flee Paris as soon as we can. I've heard of a group of rogue Sentinels and Guides hiding in Switzerland. It will be difficult to get across borders, but if we go as south as we can for now and stake it out, I'm sure we can come up with--"

Combeferre was moving (and speaking) quickly. It was clear he'd already thought all of this through. But Enjolras raised a hand, trying to silence him, and Combeferre trailed off mid-sentence.

"We're not leaving Paris," he said, seriously. Combeferre stared at him as if Enjolras had grown a second head. At that reaction, Enjolras continued. "There are too many of our brothers suffering here. We can't abandon them."

It was quiet for a moment - Combeferre looked as if he was seriously thinking Enjolras' words over, and then, he looked exasperated, but there was a smile on his face.

"You may be right," he conceded. "No, you _are_ right, undoubtedly. But what can we do?"

"I'm not certain yet," Enjolras answered. "But if we wait for now and stake it out, I'm sure we can come up with something."

At having his own words turned around on him, Combeferre could do nothing but smile.

With that settled for now, Enjolras turned his attention instead to the other elephant in the room - the subject of their overwhelming compatibility, of the fact that Combeferre's spirit responded to Enjolras' consistently, and the pressing instinct to bond with him that Enjolras felt so strongly he felt almost dizzy each time he looked in the other man's direction.

It was not a very easy or happy subject. Enjolras had long-since determined he would never bond, that he would not tie another person to him like that. But Combeferre was unlike anything Enjolras had ever felt before, and...

Enjolras struggled to organize his thoughts. He opened his mouth, ready to address the topic, when, suddenly:

"You must be starving." Combeferre spoke quickly, just before Enjolras could. Enjolras looked up, meeting his eyes in surprise. He couldn't deny that - he hadn't eaten anything in about twenty-four hours, and his stomach ached. "There's food in the café downstairs. I'll bring you something."

Before Enjolras could object, Combeferre had already turned and gone out the door. Enjolras heard the man's footsteps sound down the hall and then quickly take the stairs before mingling into the noise of the busy café below.

He got the distinct feeling that Combeferre was avoiding the topic of their bonding altogether. It was, he realized, probably for the best.

"I will not be a man ruled by instinct," he told the empty room. "There is work to do."

When Combeferre returned minutes later with a bag containing two warm sandwiches and hot bowls of soup, Enjolras was pleased with the distraction. The two pulled chairs up to the desk and ate, and Enjolras glanced over Combeferre's book choices. All philosophy, several pertaining to the subject of Sentinels and Guides, but framed with his other choices, the books seemed more academic than suspicious.

"If we're staying here," Combeferre said, taking a drink from a glass of water he'd taken from the sink, "we're going to need help. Luckily, I have a few contacts."

Enjolras looked up, surprised. "Oh?"

"There is a man who helped me arrange a way out of the Tower. Not actively, per se, but he would send me letters and packages at the Tower. Our families know each other, so it was never given too much scrutiny. His name is Joly, he's a medical student here in Paris. And," Combeferre paused, taking a bite from his soup and swallowing, "he's been hiding being a Guide for ten years."

That was a lead worth pursuing. Enjolras finished his meal, thinking over their plans.

He didn't feel comfortable allowing Combeferre to call ahead - with both him and Enjolras missing, the Tower would likely be watching anyone they knew to be connected, and since Combeferre had sent letters back and forth, it didn't seem wise. Instead, the two waited until dusk and went to the school Joly was attending, only a few miles away from the café.

The school was outlying on the city's edges, more suburban than urban. It was a series of tall brown brick buildings that looked older than Enjolras had expected, but respectable all the same - he got the feeling it was likely an expensive school, although he wasn't familiar immediately with the name. Combeferre identified the main building where Joly would be in class, and the two settled awkwardly on a wood-and-iron bench outside the doors.

Enjolras was hyper-alert as they sat, watching each person who passed by, ears tuned to all outlying sounds, working to sense any Sentinels in the nearby area. After a few minutes, the effort was making him dizzy, and he nearly jumped when Combeferre placed a cautious but reassuring hand on his wrist, trying to send reassuring energy towards him. With Enjolras' senses turned up, the sudden physical contact was excruciatingly intense, and Combeferre's energy seemed like far too much. Within moments, though, Combeferre was working to turn Enjolras down to a more manageable, but still alert level, to tune each sense individually so only the ones necessary were running. Combeferre was loosening the knots Enjolras had worked into himself, and he was extremely grateful for it. The sense of how compatible they were washed again over both of them once more, and Enjolras could feel Combeferre balk at it.

It would have to be addressed later - the building's doors swished open, and Enjolras could feel a sense of familiarity coming from Combeferre about the man who walked through and out onto the sidewalk. It must be Joly. Sure enough, Combeferre stood, pulling his hand from Enjolras' wrist. Joly took a few steps before noticing them, blinking, obviously surprised. His eyes moved from Combeferre to Enjolras sitting on the bench just a few steps away and his surprise turned to a sharp fear; he'd clearly recognized Enjolras as a Sentinel and had misinterpreted his presence. Combeferre could sense Joly's fear, too, and held up a hand.

"Joly, this is Enjolras. He's--" there was a pause, a bit longer than it should have been, "--a friend." Combeferre smiled, reassuringly, and Joly visibly relaxed.

The man looked hurried and scattered - he was of average height, but far too thin, and he had messy dark brown hair. He wore a button-up, a vest, a tie, and slacks, but despite the nice clothes, there were signs that he was unkept - his pants and shirt were wrinkled, his tie was loose around his neck. Regardless, Enjolras stood and approached, offering his hand. Joly looked at it, at Enjolras, and hesitated. For a moment, Enjolras wondered if the man still had his reservations about him, before he quickly spoke, "Sorry, I would, but I'm feeling a bit under the weather. I wouldn't want to get you sick." He sniffed as if to punctuate it, and Enjolras nodded, lowering his hand. Joly turned towards Combeferre, then, managing a nervous smile.

"I'm glad to see you're alright," he said, quietly. "I didn't know you were planning on leaving that place with a friend."

"Neither did I," Combeferre admitted, "but it's a story best told somewhere else." He frowned. "Let's go get something to eat. We can talk about it there."

"There's a popular place near here," Joly supplied. He flashed a sort of apologetic look towards Enjolras as he continued, voice even lower than before. "It's always packed, and loud. I don't think we could be eavesdropped on there."

"Sounds perfect," Enjolras answered. Joly nodded and led them down the street. Combeferre engaged him quickly in casual conversation about school and his family, and they appeared, for all intents and purposes, like a group of friends getting food together after class. That didn't stop Enjolras from staying on alert, but they didn't encounter anything strange or unusual on the way.

Once they were seated in a cramped booth in the back of the restaurant, Combeferre explained their meeting and escape, and Joly listened in interest, occasionally shooting Enjolras incredulous glances. Once that was done, and they were better acquainted, Combeferre set on the task of talking to Joly in hushed voices, explaining that he'd set up an agreement that the money in his accounts from his inheritance was to go to Joly should he ever die or go missing, and that the policy would likely be enacted now that he was off the grid. Enjolras couldn't help the slight amusement that turned quickly into dissatisfaction with the state of affairs - they sounded like men entrenched in working out the details of some crime much greater than ensuring their own freedom, and it disgusted him that such actions could be considered crimes at all.

"Enjolras has plans," Combeferre said, suddenly, once the matter of the money had been talked into the ground. "He has it in his head that we can make change."

"We can," Enjolras said, surely, setting down his drink. He locked Joly's gaze with his own. "But it will be hard work, and we will need support."

"I'm-- I'm hiding," Joly murmured, "I'm not certain how much I can help." He looked around, clearly worried. "I know what the Tower does is awful. That's why I hide. But what can we change? How?"

"Men like you and I shouldn't have to hide to attempt to be free," Enjolras answered. "It isn't true freedom when you have to look over your shoulder every moment. And there are surely others who think so. If we make a stand together, we can begin change. But it will be difficult and dangerous. I need men who are serious, who can fight."

Joly sighed, casting eyes down into his lap. "You are not the only one who thinks so."

This got Enjolras' attention. "How so?"

"My roommate would agree." He stirred his straw in his water cup anxiously. "He's the only one who knows, about me. He studies law, and he's always been interested in those injustices."

"Would he be open to joining our group?" Combeferre asked, and it struck Enjolras suddenly that they _were_ starting a 'group' - Joly looked just as stricken, and he blinked, surprised, before smiling despite himself.

"He certainly won't turn us in, so I can at least ask him without risk." Joly sighed. "Where are you staying?"

"There's rooms for rent above the Café Musain, on the Rue Saint-Michel." Combeferre took a pen from his pocket, jotting the information down on one of the paper napkins and handing it to Joly. "You're welcome to visit anytime. There's no way to phone ahead, and your calls could be monitored right now."

"Be vigilant," Enjolras amended.

"Anytime?" Joly asked. He cast a suspicious glance between Enjolras and Combeferre. "You're not... bonded, then?"

Combeferre flushed, clearly caught off-guard by the question and its further implications. Enjolras didn't let his gaze falter, a slight frown tugging the corner of his lips.

"We're not," he answered, promptly. "We're men, working together."

"Should have noticed earlier," Joly murmured, sheepish. "Er, well. I'll pay for the meal, don't worry about it. I'll come by around this time on Friday, if my health allows it. If all goes well, I should have Bossuet with me."

The group broke apart, and soon enough, Enjolras and Combeferre were making the walk home. It was dark, street lamps already lit, and Enjolras adjusted his sight accordingly, trying to learn his new surroundings well.

"We're growing already," Combeferre said, once they'd passed the threshold of the relative safety of their own room. "Now that my funds are more secure, you may want your own room."

Enjolras paused. "I enjoy your company," he said, finally. It was as neutral as he could be. "You keep me from zoning."

Combeferre allowed a small smile. "In that case, I'm happy to help a friend."


	3. the joining of two wholes

The next few days passed almost painfully slowly. Enjolras set himself on the books Combeferre wasn't reading at any given moment, eager to devour something that, while not ever illegal in content, wasn't what had been Tower-approved in its library. There was quite a bit of information within that he hadn't learned before - long-winded philosophy on what made their kind different from normal people, scientific data on DNA and genes and heritability, Combeferre had even selected a book supposedly written by a Guide who had turned himself in to the government after a long period of hiding and was so very happy he had. The latter was laced with an exorbitant amount of propaganda, and Enjolras read it with a contained, cold resentment that bubbled into anger with each passing page.

The rest of the books dealt with a more broad sense of freedom - Combeferre had grabbed books by thinkers from as long ago as the eighteenth century, and yet their words and thoughts were as relevant today as they were then. Enjolras consumed them, filling up his head more and more with the ideas he'd cultivated since childhood. There were so many places in the world that called themselves "free", but as long as there were Towers, it would never truly be so.

Nestled in among this reading was a growing sense of anxiety, which Enjolras easily picked up on from Combeferre. Friday couldn't come soon enough - the news of whether they would have another man to add to their group, a man who, even as a student, would no doubt be useful, was nerve-wracking.

It was Wednesday evening, and Combeferre had taken to pacing the carpet, book in hand, hardly reading the words on the page. Enjolras looked back at the man over his shoulder, trying to feel him out. It was clear that he needed to calm Combeferre down. Typically, it was the Guide's job to calm a Sentinel, but Enjolras was confident that, if he could find something lying underneath Combeferre's anxiety, he could intensify it and draw it out. It was worth a try. Still, as he tried to mentally wade his way through the other man's emotions, he couldn't seem to find anything else. 

Combeferre broke away from his book, snapping it shut, eyes shooting up to meet Enjolras'. "Stop that," he said, almost too defensively. "You're prying." Enjolras had to admit that he was taken aback by the quick shut-out - he didn't realize his probing had been that obvious, and he felt a little self-conscious at having gotten Combeferre's attention. More than that, though, was the intense reaction towards having the brunt of the man's attention suddenly turned on him. He was hit once again with the clear fact of their compatibility, and he tried to swallow it down, but instinct pulled him forward, sending signals that were increasingly difficult for him to avoid.

Combeferre was extraordinarily attractive, beyond a mere physical way (but in that way, as well). Every part of Enjolras seemed to cry for its matching part in Combeferre, and the two had danced around the issue for days that had felt like weeks.

And it was difficult to dance, Enjolras reasoned, when your partner refused your touch.

"We should rest," Combeferre said, suddenly, as if he felt the electric charge in the air (and he had to, they were too close on the same wavelength for him not to know exactly what Enjolras' mind had turned to once again). He was stalling, then, the same way he always had over the past few days, avoiding the topic and trying very forcefully to steer Enjolras from it as well. At first, Enjolras had reasoned that Combeferre's avoidance was wise - distracting themselves from their goal at hand by becoming too enamored with each other would be foolish - but as time wore on, it became clear the opposite was the case. The growing unresolved attraction was becoming more of a distraction than having it fulfilled would be, certainly, and Enjolras could only shut out primal instinct for so long.

After the Tower's oppressive teachings and rules regarding bondings and hierarchy in coupled pairs, Enjolras had decided the easiest way to avoid echoing those oppressions in his own life would be to stay unbonded. No one could ever feel trapped or tethered to or by him if he never tied anyone to him in the first place. But the more he thought on the matter, the more he realized that denying those instincts - which were a part of him, a part of that Sentinel part of him - was something like encouraging shame in himself, and that would be a grievous mistake. He had to feel proud of himself, of what he was, and instead hate the corrupt teachings and the mockery others made of it.

Bonding, then, was part of who (or what) he was. It was imperative, instinctual, and right now, it felt absolutely necessary.

Still, he would not rush into it like some hot-blooded idiot, and he would not do anything against Combeferre's will. What he needed to determine was what, exactly, Combeferre's hesitation was towards.

"Combeferre," he said, rising from his chair, abandoning the book he'd been paging through on the desk. "We need to talk about this, and clear the air, so we can move our focus onto other tasks."

"Ah," Combeferre murmured, shaking his head. "So business-like."

The room felt tense and dry, the air seemed heavy. Enjolras tried to close his mind away from that feeling, and found he could hear the sounds of the dishes being piled up and washed downstairs as the café prepared to close, could hear the sounds of low murmuring in the room down the hall - a young couple planning to elope. Her voice shook, she was scared, or worried, but her beau spoke low, soothing words to calm her, and her breathing steadied. Down the road, a man, drunk, sang to himself, speech slurred, as he stumbled up the street. Among all this interference there was the low hoot of an owl, and suddenly, Enjolras was brought back to the room with the touch of two cool fingertips at his wrist.

Combeferre was standing just in front of him, only inches apart, his face painted in concern.

"You zoned," he murmured, although he did not withdraw his hand. "You should be more careful."

"You brought me back easily," Enjolras answered, seizing the opportunity to demonstrate his point. "And every night since coming here you've been beside me and turned my senses down so I can sleep. You manage me effortlessly."

"Managing you is hardly effortless," Combeferre objected, but he was smiling all the same - a faint, thin smile Enjolras could feel more than he could see. This close, even with Combeferre keeping his senses carefully in check, Enjolras could _smell_ the scent wafting from the other man, and his stomach twisted with it. He wanted to bury himself in that smell - earthy and sharp, but soothing all the same, underneath the musk of cheap soap he'd bought at a tiny convenience store nearby. His instincts were hammering away in his head, and Enjolras moved to grasp Combeferre's wrist, trying once again to push them away. Combeferre opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out, and he closed it again, swallowing. Enjolras could do nothing but watch the way Combeferre's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat with the gesture, every pore in startlingly clear focus.

"I would never keep you against your will," Enjolras said, carefully. He'd been reduced to watch the changing light in Combeferre's eyes for an idea of the emotion within, as Combeferre had blocked any tenuous link between them with which Enjolras could use to feel it out more properly. "I'm confident we can do more good together than apart."

Combeferre tried not to meet his gaze, but the corner of his mouth turned up a little bit. "Your confidence is inspiring. Everything about you may be inspiring." And then, with a fleeting hesitation, their lips met - haltingly at first, and then, once tasted, with more passion until it became almost frenzied. Enjolras stepped forward, pressing Combeferre back against the wall, just near the window, reaching out with one hand to tug the curtain as closed as he could. The other hand went naturally to Combeferre's hip - Enjolras had, at once, no idea what he was doing and every idea in the world. He was running on instinct, and he struggled to balance that - if he thought too much, he knew he'd suddenly stop, caught up in confusion and embarrassment, but if he let instinct take over, it could be too hard to stop himself if he needed to.

Truthfully, though, it didn't seem that Combeferre wanted him to stop. He had a hand in Enjolras' hair, fingers running through with a surprising gentleness. Enjolras basked in that feeling, finally pulling their lips away, struggling to gasp for breath. He hadn't quite managed to work out how to breathe through his nose while kissing yet, too unpracticed with the skill set at all. Their kisses had been passionate, but clumsy. Enjolras kept close, through, their mouths still nearly touching. Combeferre was gasping too, although in a much more refined way.

"We've only just met each other," Combeferre murmured. "Were we not--" he swallowed, breathed, and tried again, "--apparently matched, I-- I wouldn't be this, ah, eager."

"There's no need to defend yourself," Enjolras said, almost amused. "But I appreciate the clarification." He moved his hands, then, to work the top two buttons of Combeferre's shirt, exposing more neck and a collarbone. Aroused like this, Combeferre was putting off pheromones that Enjolras could smell, distinctly; they threatened to overtake him, and he was eager to let them.

He'd never quite been told how this would work, but he assumed he'd quickly understand. There was a bond there between them, most certainly - and Enjolras had heard of platonic bonds between Sentinels and Guides (typically when they were family), although the bonds were apparently not as strong. What they had between them needed only to be finalized, and sealed. As Enjolras ran gentle fingers over Combeferre's neck while the other man trembled beneath his touch, Enjolras thought he realized what he needed to do.

He pressed his mouth back to Combeferre's, then, tilting his head back up, moving their lips together. Combeferre's grip in his hair tightened, and Enjolras reveled in the pressure and release. Slowly, Enjolras moved his mouth down from Combeferre's lips to the side of his mouth, his jawline, his chin, until his mouth was on Combeferre's neck, nose pressed into the skin, and the smell and the sounds he was making and the grip of his fingers against Enjolras' body had completely flooded all of Enjolras' senses.

And there, where he could feel the rush of Combeferre's pulse, he bit down, hard.

In that moment, the bond between them felt like a living, tangible thing - Enjolras was certain he could feel it curling around them, solidifying, and he suddenly felt a rush of access into Combeferre's mind, senses, into everything there was there. It was all laid out for him, and it didn't feel like he was standing over, looking down at it - but rather more like it was _his_ , like he was looking in on himself, that he and Combeferre had become one.

And it was exhilarating.

Somewhere in the rush of the next twenty minutes, they'd moved from the wall to the bed nearby - Enjolras wasn't certain how; he knew he couldn't give a blow-by-blow of what had just happened even if he wanted to, it had been too chaotic and hurried, not like losing time, but like losing himself within that time. They'd lost clothes rather haphazardly - Combeferre's button up was loose and undone, arms still in the sleeves, but otherwise unclothed as he laid against the bed, the sheet tangled around his legs. Enjolras was naked completely, lying beside him, curled in on his side, one hand moving back and forth against Combeferre's collarbone, dreamily, the movement soothing, keeping him in the moment.

They were bonded, then - it was official. The feeling was quite different from what Enjolras had imagined, and he felt a newfound level of disgust for any Sentinel who thought their Guide was someone they could own. Combeferre was someone Enjolras wanted to protect, fiercely, but at the same time, Enjolras knew he was someone who could protect himself. Enjolras respected him, adored him, and in this moment, those feelings were amplified so much that he could feel nothing else.

It was good, he thought, that Friday was two days away. As Combeferre reached a hand up to absently stroke Enjolras' hair from his face, Enjolras knew he wouldn't want any company for a while. He would want to enjoy his Guide, find the ins and outs of him, strip him bare and know him as intimately as he knew himself.

They weren't two halves of a whole, he reminded himself. The Tower was fallacious in that right. They were something more, better - two wholes that fit together to create something much more than they did alone, but each still, on their own, a force to be reckoned with.

As Enjolras gave up consciousness and finally fell asleep, his last thought was that they would show the Tower that, together. He was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so long to update (and sorry for such a plot-lacking chapter)! Quick excuse is that I had to get my portfolio finished and together for school and the date snuck up on me sooner than I'd realized. :x I'll keep updates going quicker from here on out! We'll see Bossuet and another someone introduced next time. Thank you for reading!!


	4. the unlucky fellow & the good-natured mortal

By the time the sun rose on Friday, Enjolras and Combeferre had shaken off most of their lazy reverie. They'd exchanged few words over the past number of hours, opting instead to communicate nonverbally, through use of their new bond.

It wasn't the same as telepathy - there was no real exchange of words, just feelings and emotions, non-specific thought. Enjolras could read Combeferre easily, and they seemed to work together in a way that was seamless.

Enjolras rose with the sun, leaving his warm spot in bed behind, stepping past the open windows and towards the bathroom, getting ready to run the shower. He turned on the stream, and as he waited for the temperature to adjust, he leaned in the doorway, naked, his head turned out towards the bed, watching Combeferre dozing peacefully.

Having his own life was still a novelty to him. Enjolras was used to waking when he was told, quickly getting dressed and washed, and attending lessons (propaganda) or training or whatever was on his schedule for that day. Being allowed to slow down and take his time, make his own decisions, and plan his own life was giving him a new appreciation for nearly everything around him.

By the time Combeferre fully awoke, Enjolras was clean and dressed, and was returning with breakfast from a bakery just two blocks away. The rolls were warm, freshly baked, and Combeferre took one with an appreciative look, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the other hand, surveying their view of the street from his seat on the edge of the bed.

"We'll hear from Joly today," he said, as if Enjolras didn't already know that. "He said it would be the same time we'd met him before, so... late afternoon, at least."

"Let's hope he has good news," Enjolras murmured, coffee in hand. "We can use more support. Any plans on how to spend the day?"

"Yes, actually." Combeferre glanced back towards Enjolras, a slight hint of mischievousness in the air. "Now that my funds are more secure, there are things we both need. Neither of us packed an overnight bag out of the Tower, unless you've been hiding one. We need to buy some clothes."

Enjolras was almost ashamed he hadn't thought of that. He'd been so overcome with plans for their rebellion and thoughts of freedom and other lofty ideals that he'd overlooked more day-to-day elements of life. The rented room had provided soap and shampoo, enough to get him through a bath. He'd practically forgotten anything else. "Of course."

With breakfast finished, and the extra bread wrapped and tucked away, the two slipped into their shoes and down the street. Combeferre's eyes moved from window to window before finding what he wanted - a larger clothing store, a little too crowded for Enjolras' taste, but less expensive-looking than the row of stores they'd passed. Combeferre stepped inside, with Enjolras at his heels.

"We'll have to buy a little at a time," Combeferre said, as they moved towards the men's section in the back of the store. "It may sound paranoid, but I'd rather not arouse suspicion by buying an entire new wardrobe in one go."

"Paranoia can be useful," Enjolras said, looking every which way, trying not to become overwhelmed. He'd never shopped for his own clothes before - of course, since being brought there, he'd never really been allowed to leave the Tower. When would he have gotten the opportunity? He'd been told he'd be given an assignment soon, which would have relocated him somewhere else, but that day hadn't come.

They found the men's section and Combeferre loaded their tiny basket quickly with underwear and socks. Enjolras lagged behind, unsure how to proceed. Combeferre had been planning to escape, and had put measures in place to ensure his money would be accessible when he did, but Enjolras' escape had been impulsive, in the moment. He certainly didn't regret it, but he couldn't devise any way to gain access to his own account without some work and quite a bit of luck, and it would take time. Walking into the bank and attempting to make a withdrawal would be idiotic, his account was likely flagged to call Sentinel Enforcers to the bank within minutes of it being accessed. Despite the fact that they were bonded, and that Enjolras had felt as if they'd become one, taking his money wasn't something he cared to do cavalierly.

The only plan he really had was to make contact with the servant he'd been closest to in his father's manor, and hope the man would make some discreet arrangements. In the days before Enjolras had been taken to the Tower, that man had been the only one who had consoled him and seemed at all distressed that Enjolras was to be taken away. Enjolras could only hope that the passing years had not worn down that fondness, even though his letters had been much more sparing than they should have been. It was a risk.

In his thoughts, Enjolras had been paying little attention to the store around him, and had wandered a bit from Combeferre's side. He found himself standing in front of a display of mannequins, standing on a strange step-pyramid like structure. The one at the top had its arm raised, others around it turned to look. They were all dressed in clothes hanging on the racks around them, but Enjolras' eye was caught particularly by a double-breasted red jacket the one at the top was wearing.

Combeferre came up beside him, a few more items in the basket, watching Enjolras' gaze.

"It suits you," he said, and Enjolras blinked, turning his head towards Combeferre, then back towards the jacket.

"It's nice."

"Striking, really." Combeferre gazed at it a moment longer. "I'll buy it for you."

"It's too warm for a jacket," Enjolras objected, taken aback by the offer. "You should keep your money."

"Nonsense. Autumn is on its way. It will be breezy soon enough, and then cold, and then freezing. And you're planning on sticking around long enough to need it, aren't you?" Combeferre smiled. "Try it on first. Let's see how it looks on you."

Combeferre was right, of course. The jacket _did_ suit him. An hour later, the two moved from the store and back onto the street, bags in hand, enough clothes to get them through a week without being too suspicious. The red jacket sat folded at the top of the bag, and Enjolras looked down at it with a growing fondness.

By the time they'd had lunch and gotten back to the café, Combeferre was back to the anxiety from Wednesday night, pacing the room, checking the clock, straightening and re-straightening their sparse belongings. Enjolras had hung their clothes in the tiny closet, and he watched Combeferre with slight amusement, once again too distracted from his book to make any progress in it.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," he murmured, as Combeferre circled around the bed for the fifth time, straightening the blanket and fluffing a pillow.

"So I'll wear a hole in the floor," Combeferre answered. "It's not as if--"

Just then, there was a quiet knock at the door. Enjolras nearly jumped, then mentally chastised himself for having been snuck up on. Wasn't he meant to be vigilant?

Combeferre went quickly to the door, cracking and then opening it with a sigh of relief.

"Joly," he greeted, smiling. "Good to see you."

Enjolras stood as well, noting not one, but two men standing behind Joly. He tried to feel them out, hoping for a hint or two about them. "Come in," he said. "Out of the hallway."

"Right, yes, of course--" Joly looked embarrassed, stepping in, and the two others followed.

They were both taller than Joly, although that's where their similarities stopped. One was broad-shouldered and pale, in faded, old-looking clothes (ripped or worn in some places, and Enjolras was certain he could see one tear in the pant leg that had been carefully sewn back in place), completely bald, and cheerful-looking. He lifted his hand towards Enjolras, and Enjolras took it, gripping there.

"I'm Lesgles," he said, introducing himself. "Joly's my roommate - he told me a little about you two. You're Enjolras, then, and this is Combeferre?"

"Pleasure to meet you, Lesgles," Enjolras said. The man to Lesgles' left laughed a little, shaking his head.

"Nobody calls him that," he objected. "Call the man Bossuet. And I'm Bahorel. I'm a friend." Bahorel wore dark clothes and had messy hair, and as Enjolras reached to take his hand, he noticed scrapes and scabs on Bahorel's knuckles - in addition to the healing cut across his forehead and traces of what could be a black eye, it looked like Bahorel knew how to get into a fight.

With introductions done, Enjolras realized their room was not the most convenient meeting place - there was really nowhere to sit, and no table to talk over. As if realizing this at the same time, Combeferre spoke up. "Let's move downstairs and get something to drink," he offered. "We should be able to get a corner table and have some space to ourselves to talk."

"Sounds good to me." Bahorel turned, closest to the door, and led the group down the stairs and into the café itself.

The Musain was really part café and part bar - they served all manner of drink, and even a small selection of food. Bahorel took the initiative, loudly shouting for a round of beer while Joly grabbed a table.

"Tab's on me," Bahorel assured them, sliding into his seat. "Order whatever you want, I've got you covered."

"That's generous of you," Combeferre said, looking skeptical.

"Don't worry about it." Bahorel waved a hand, relaxing into his chair. Joly was surveying the room, looking nervous. Enjolras opened his mouth to talk, but just as he was about to speak the waitress came over, setting bottles down, and before he could get his bearings again, Bossuet talked over him.

"Bahorel's done this before," Bossuet explained, uncapping his bottle and taking a drink. "The Tower Protests about five years ago - heard of 'em?"

"No," Enjolras said, incredulous. How had he missed something like that?

"Well, you wouldn't have, would you," Bahorel said, sighing. "I would bet they control what news you get on the inside. Assholes. Plan was to get into the Tower itself, open it up so everyone who wanted to leave _could._ We didn't get that far before getting shut down, though." He looked bitter at the memory. "And everyone from then's moved on, decided to go for easier targets before taking Paris down - Montpellier, Brest - but I can get you in touch with 'em, if you want."

"That would be wonderful," Enjolras said. It would be unlikely those people would come back to Paris now, likely already entrenched in their own plans of action, but communication with other groups, sharing information, learning from their mistakes, that would all be incredibly helpful.

"Leave it to me." Bahorel grinned. It was the first time he'd really smiled since their meeting began - as if, at the prospect of having some task to set himself on, he'd finally come alive. There was a spark in his gaze, and Enjolras liked it. "In the meantime, we're gonna need more people. Five's good, but believe me, it's not enough. More people, and some solid thinkers."

"The problem is that it's difficult to recruit for a cause that's illegal to even have exist," Combeferre said, bending forward, elbows on the table. "Our best bet is to advertise ourselves as a political group, try to drum up some numbers that way. We'll garner some attention, but if we can be cautious and pass ourselves off as a group of normal citizens concerned with reforming laws about the Towers, we'll at least avoid arrest."

"Good plan. Good as it's gonna get, anyway. Would have been impossible two, three years ago, but most of the agitation about the protests I was in have died down. There's a few laws about Towers being examined this year, anyway." Bahorel reached into his pocket, shifting, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and lit it, pressing it between his lips. "Guess we have a couple solid thinkers after all."

Joly cut in to explain, a little bashfully, why they had a third unexpected party - apparently Bossuet had terrible luck, ("an ongoing problem," Bossuet added with a laugh) and had accidentally pocket-dialed Bahorel's phone just as Joly was explaining the group and the situation and asking him to join. Enjolras' heart was beating fast in his chest - _they'd almost been ruined, all of them_ \- but Bahorel had heard the words and agreed with them, had apparently called back and asked to join. Bahorel and Bossuet were classmates, Bossuet clarified, and they'd known each other for some time.

"I hope you don't mind," Joly amended, ending his story. "I know it wasn't my secret to tell, about you, and your status. And I won't do it again - but things got a bit out of hand. We'll be more cautious from here on out."

"I hope so," Enjolras answered, although he could hardly be too angry - things had worked out well, and everyone understood the need for discretion and care. "We must take care of ourselves. We're all fugitives - even the two of you, from this moment." He leveled his gaze towards Bossuet and Bahorel, the two normal men at their table. "Aiding hiding Sentinels or Guides is a serious crime. Be certain about what you're doing, and what you're committing to."

Bahorel placed his hand on the table, firmly, intensely meeting Enjolras' eyes. "I understand, Enjolras. I've fought this fight before. And Bossuet has been aiding Joly for years now. We're a part of this. We all want to be here."

"I agree." Bossuet gave a small smile, nodding. "We need to take this one step forward, and then two, and then more. I can't enjoy my freedom when men like Joly live in fear, or worse, behind doors locked from the other side."

They were in agreement, then. Enjolras felt the corners of his mouth twitch, an attempt at a smile.

"We'll talk to a few others in our class," Bahorel said. "There's at least one man who's spoken about laws regarding abduction of Guides. He didn't sound too impressed with them."

"That's a start." Enjolras knew they needed more than a slow trickle of numbers - but between Bahorel's nation-wide resources, Combeferre's ideas and intellect, and Enjolras' sheer will and determination, they would get through. If they worked hard, the rest would fall into place.


	5. Chapter 5

Marius Pontmercy had officially had enough of his grandfather.

Apparently, the man had been so interested in Marius' studies he'd taken it on himself to read the essay Marius had written and tucked away - with his school bag left forgotten in the parlor, he hadn't even needed to invade Marius' privacy by coming into his room to do it. Normally, Marius would hardly mind - his grandfather was an intelligent man who could provide good feedback and solid ideas - but this time, when the teacher had stressed that they make their arguments on topics that were truly controversial, Marius had complied. He'd written a rather serious essay discussing the legality (or lack thereof) of laws which allowed government employees to track down and capture innocent people who happened to be Sentinels or Guides - something rather on topic, considering the current laws were set to be examined by parliament within the next year.

Unfortunately, Marius' grandfather (a man referred to, in his old age, respectfully as "Monsieur Gillenormand") had extremely strong opinions regarding the topic - as a (now retired) member of parliament, Gillenormand had voted on many of the current laws on Sentinels and Guides, and had remained staunch and unwavering in his belief that they needed to be kept separate from the general public, on a tight leash, and regarded with suspicion.

Of course, Marius couldn't be too bitter about it - his grandfather's position in Parliament, which kept him busy, left him with little time to spend paying attention to his own home. Too little time to even realize he had a Sentinel living under his roof.

When Marius had first been struck with his heightened senses, Gillenormand had been shut away in a lengthy Parliament session, and the only one who had seen his sudden change of demeanor had been Gillenormand's daughter, who lived with them. Marius' sense of self-preservation had kept him from showing too much of a reaction, and she'd assumed he was simply sick. Marius kept himself shut up in his quarters for days, assuring anyone who came to check on him or bring him food that he had the flu and would be fine soon. He'd been sixteen years old - an abnormally late bloomer for a Sentinel, so no one had been suspicious.

Given his grandfather's profession and years of loud recited propaganda over the dinner table, Marius had known what the "sickness" meant instantly, and the confusion and uncertainty plagued him for weeks. But the initial feeling of self-hatred eventually melted away, and Marius realized quickly that he needed to be careful, stealthy, and secretive, because Gillenormand would have no problems with sending him away, and life in captivity sounded unsavory at best.

He'd been careful to separate himself from it, to keep from mentioning or speaking about it, or even involving himself in his grandfather's conversations about it - until the essay, something meant to leave warm from Marius' printer and arrive untouched the next day to the classroom. But Gillenormand had found it, read it, and disliked it; and Marius, when confronted by the man moments later, was careful with his secret but stood by his opinions.

 _"No man,_ the essay stated, _"innocent of any crime should fear the reach of Justice's arm. No man who is not a thief, a murderer, a kidnapper, or a criminal in any other manner should be locked away - yet these men and women are born with lifelong prison sentences coded into their DNA. The gravest error is that these sentences are served by Towers operating under a division of the Ministry of Justice, as if this is justice at all."_

Gillenormand, incensed, had argued, Marius had shouted back, and an hour later, Marius stood outside of the house, throwing bags into his car, his face red and hot, mouth twisted into a still-angry scowl.

He had no idea where he was going, but he was not staying here. Three hours later, Marius found a hotel near his school, paid for a room for the week, and took to his [blog](http://marpont.tumblr.com/) \- physically, he was exhausted, but mentally, he was too worked up to sleep.

> _My grandfather's removed me for speaking out against his points of view - that is fine! It's time that I was on my own, anyway. I've lived under his roof and by his laws for too long._
> 
> _I can't say I don't hold a measure of respect for him - he raised me, and taught me the things I know, and those things are valuable to me. But we've disagreed on a certain topic for too long, and that disagreement has come to a head._
> 
> _I'm not sure where to go from here. I'm staying somewhere near school for now, but I need to find a place to settle in. For now, I'm going to focus on classes, and make something of myself._
> 
> _That being said, if anyone knows of cheap housing, I'd have an interest in it._

With a sigh, Marius closed his laptop, settling back against the uncomfortable hotel bed. He didn't even have any friends in school he could count on - he'd been so careful about his secret that he'd spent too long shutting everyone out. There was no one to turn to. He didn't even have the comforting company of a guiding animal to share his space like so many other Sentinels and Guides - although he'd read about the topic at length (it seemed as if everyone was supposed to have one), and tried with meditation and concentrated thinking and sheer force of will to make one appear, he'd never been successful.

In this moment, as he tried to drift to sleep, Marius felt truly and completely alone.

 

 

He arrived late to class the next morning, despite being closer to the school, and discovered that the professor was absent. There was a student aide running the class, clearly out of her element, and she'd instructed them to form groups of three to go over each other's essays and read, proofread, and give feedback and ideas before the final due date next week.

Marius stood at the front of the room, feeling foolish, eyes scanning the groups to find one he could join.

Seeing his confusion, a man raised his hand, gesturing Marius over. There were only two at that small table, and Marius sighed in relief, heading to join the group. He didn't know the two at all - the class had just started, and he spent too much time concerned with the material to worry about the people sitting in desks around him. When he moved to take a seat, the man who had waved him over held out his hand, and Marius took it, setting his bag down at his feet with the other.

"Hey. I'm Lesgles. This is Bahorel." The other man lifted a hand with bandaged fingers. "I think everyone else is three, so you're stuck with us." He grinned.

"Pontmercy," Marius answered, nodding. He reached down into his bag to retrieve his folder, pulling out the paper. "We'll just... pass to the right?"

"Sounds good." Lesgles handed his paper to Marius, and Marius handed his to Bahorel, and Bahorel to Lesgles, and the three fell silent, set on reading. At one point, Lesgles pulled out a pen, beginning to make notations in the margins, but Bahorel didn't move, intensely reading, his mouth twitching up at the corners. When he finished, just a moment after Marius had, as well, he slowly set the paper down, leveling his gaze.

"Now _there's_ a heavy topic," Bahorel said, raising an eyebrow. Marius was still raw from the fight he'd had over the paper the night before, and he jumped instantly to the defensive.

"Heavy or not, it must be discussed," he said, too sharply - Bahorel looked a little surprised, and Marius realized perhaps too late that starting a fight with him would probably not work out in his favor.

But Bahorel didn't fight - just leaned back against his seat, nodding. "You're very right," he said. Curious, Lesgles reached over to pluck Marius' paper from Bahorel's hand, beginning to read, his eyes moving over the lines quickly.

"Pontmercy," Lesgles said, finally, after he'd finished reading, "I don't think I'd change a single line in these pages," and Marius breathed a sigh of relief, taking the paper back, smiling.

 

 

Courfeyrac had met Grantaire years ago, when he'd been walking home from school and found a stray dog pacing worriedly outside of a darkened alleyway. The dog looked hungry and dirty, but it was too cute to ignore - it was black and brown, with white patches on his face and chest, ears pointed up at attention, and a bushy tail that had been hanging between his legs. Courfeyrac felt too guilty to walk by and ignore it, and so he'd stopped to see if the dog was okay. On seeing Courfeyrac approaching him, the dog's tail suddenly curled up, resting against its back, bouncing a slow, steady wag, his ears turning forward. And then he turned, trotting down the alleyway, leading Courfeyrac to follow him.

Courfeyrac hesitated for just a moment, his senses on alert. (They were better than most people's, but he wasn't a Sentinel by far.) This seemed like a good way for someone to set up an attack - for all Courfeyrac knew he could be walking into a group of people intent on holding him up for his wallet. But after a moment (and a healthy dose of feeling out the air around him), curiosity got the better of him, and he took a few steps forward, looking around.

The dog was nowhere to be seen, but there were legs poking out from behind a dumpster, and Courfeyrac rushed towards the body without worrying about his own wellbeing.

It was a man, just as dirty and worn as the dog had been, passed out, wearing a hoodie, a jacket, and a knapsack slung over his shoulder. Courfeyrac reached out, scared, his breath hitching, grasping the man's shoulder and shaking him.

"Please tell me you're not dead," Courfeyrac murmured.

The man snorted, twitched, coughed, and twisted away from Courfeyrac's hand (and Courfeyrac figured that was good enough). Blearily, he opened his eyes, glanced around, let out a sigh, and closed his eyes again.

"What," he asked, looking as if he were trying to get comfortable. "What do you want?"

Courfeyrac frowned. "I was trying to help," he said, defensive. "I think your dog ran off, I followed him in here but he's gone now."

The man snorted. "I don't have a dog," he said, but stopped suddenly, his eyes opening again, sitting up straighter, gazing at Courfeyrac. "You saw a dog?"

"I thought it was yours," Courfeyrac said. This entire exchange was getting more and more bizarre. "You should get home. It's going to snow, you don't want to be out in it." Assuming the man had a home to go to. Courfeyrac shifted, thinking. "You could come with me if you want."

"I have a home," the man said, defensively, reading into Courfeyrac's line of thinking. "I'm just-- taking an extended break walking back to it."

"You look like you got into a fight," Courfeyrac pointed out.

The man laughed, coming to his feet. "Only with a bottle of wine." He wavered a little, steadied himself, and frowned. "If you're offering and your home is closer... I could use the company."

"It's only a couple blocks away." Courfeyrac smiled. "I'm Courfeyrac."

"Grantaire." He offered his hand, and Courfeyrac shook it - it was surprisingly steady, given his state. "You're not with the Tower, then."

Courfeyrac froze, instantly on guard. "What? Why would I be--"

Grantaire laughed. "Because," he explained, "you can see my dog."

Finding another Guide hiding in Paris was more surprising than it probably should have been - and although Courfeyrac had initially been uncertain, Grantaire, as it turned out, became a close friend. The drunkenness and slightly reckless behavior didn't change, though - even now, three years later, Grantaire insisted on dragging Courfeyrac all around the city, touting the benefits of this restaurant or that bar, exclaiming he knew where to find the best of everything.

Courfeyrac had no reason to think otherwise. Grantaire seemed to spend most of his time wandering around, soaking in his surroundings. That night, they'd planned to meet up at a place called the Café Musain, which had, Grantaire guaranteed, the best rose biscuits he'd found on "this side of Paris", whatever that meant. Courfeyrac didn't care for them that much, but Grantaire had promised "decent" gougère as well, and those were always nice. It would be nice to see Grantaire either way.

Courfeyrac didn't know why, but he hadn't been prepared for Grantaire to get _ragingly_ drunk.

"This bread has to be dipped in wine," Grantaire had said, which was true enough, but did nothing to not encourage Grantaire's habit. The Musain wasn't a particularly busy place, despite the good food, and Courfeyrac felt extremely embarrassed - as Grantaire drank more, his voice got louder, and the table of men meeting quietly across the room were clearly getting more and more annoyed.

"Grantaire, you're yelling so loud I could hear you if I'd have stayed at home," Courfeyrac complained, sipping his coffee. "Those guys over there are going to have us thrown out." And he was busy enjoying his food - the gougère _were_ good.

"Let them be annoyed," Grantaire answered, although at least a little quieter. "The one in red deserves to have _my_ existence plaguing _him_ for once."

"For once?" Courfeyrac glanced over, noting the man in the red jacket with a head of golden hair. "Wait a minute - you've seen him before? You only brought me here to cruise for guys?" He huffed, popping a gougère in his mouth indignantly. "I feel lied to."

As Courfeyrac chewed, three of the men stood to leave, leaving only the man in the red jacket and another man in glasses with a book in front of him behind. Red Jacket Man stood, clasping each man's hand in his before they said goodbye.

Grantaire sighed, taking another drink.

"You could just go talk to him," Courfeyrac offered. "Do you even know his name?"

"Adonis, maybe," Grantaire said. "Antinous. No, his eyes are too harsh. Apollo, then. He seems to glow."

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, watching as the man with glasses stood from the table, patting Red Jacket Man on the arm before turning towards the back of the café and heading down the hall, disappearing from view. "He's alone now, you could go ask him." Courfeyrac was feeling very much like a teenage girl in this moment. "You have plenty of liquid courage in you."

"Alright," Grantaire said, quietly. Then louder: "Alright. I will." He pushed himself from the table, coming to a stand, wobbling a bit. He put on his best smile and turned, heading across the café - the man, who'd been glancing through the book that had been left behind on his table, glanced up, eyebrows raised, clearly wary of the man approaching him.

Courfeyrac tuned his hearing to listen, although he didn't need to do much - Grantaire was loud enough to be heard, easily.

"Yes?" the man asked.

"You shouldn't eat the macarons here," Grantaire said, suddenly, and Courfeyrac sighed - Grantaire was most certainly _not_ asking for a name, gesturing instead towards a small white plate sitting on the table at the man's side, with two macarons left on it. "They're better at Pierre Hermé."

"Is that so." The man shifted in his chair, eyeing Grantaire carefully.

"Yes." Grantaire grinned, convinced he was getting along rather well. "But you should go to the one on the Rue Vaugirard - most people go to the Rue Bonaparte store, but, it's-- the lines are longer there, and the store is more cramped."

"I don't think I'll have the chance to make it there any time soon." The man seemed a bit amused, which, Courfeyrac thought, was better than being annoyed. "Are you a macaron expert?"

"I consider myself in expert in everything. I don't know you, though-- what's your name?"

The man's lips quirked. Courfeyrac put his face in a hand, letting out a shuddering sigh.


End file.
